The other night, the Toddler’s friend accosted me at my favorite bar. Entirely unprovoked, she told me she didn’t like me, and then went on to list a litany of reasons why she didn’t like me. Among these was the assertion that “you don’t invite someone into your apartment for a glass of wine unless you’re going to sleep with them. I mean, who does that?” (Rape culture, anyone? And this woman calls herself a feminist.)

She also called me petty.

Now, up to this point, I haven’t been petty. But ask and ye shall receive, bitches. Petty is my number one skill.

The Toddler has a brilliant Twitter feed. He tweets at least ten times a day, because the entire internet is anxiously waiting to know the next time he takes a shit, or spars in Tae Kwon Do. Yes. He does Tae Kwon Do. Because he is sensitive and also in touch with the tranquil depths of Eastern culture.

(Side note: This man is actually Eeyore. My friend saw him at a party a week ago. Toddler was sitting in a corner, moping. Friend went up to him:

His last tweet, at the time I am writing this, expressed dismay that someone had written a blog post about him. I’m very private, he said, except for on Twitter. Where the whole entire world can know your business? But, as he put it, “I guess that’s the price of extremely mild internet fame.” Oh yes. That’s right. The Toddler is such a celeb that bitches be writing blog posts about him all day, every day. In his words, “this is a crazy ol’ world we live in.”

Anyway, then he blocked me on Facebook. And then nixed me as a follower on Twitter (because that’s not petty).

I gotta say. The fact that this gentleman feels so antagonized by me kind of brings me great pleasure. Except, not kind of. Most definitely.

You want petty, I’ll give you motherfucking petty.

And now I will close with an inspirational quote:

I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent.